Friday, March 30, 2012


          So long as it's not too hot, there is no labor more conducive to calm than turning earth with a shovel.  As rhyme sets its pattern, the mind can wander along a path that permits the extraordinary vegetable.  Perfect in every way.  And I can see where the roots will live.

       As well, when the bed is raked and before it is stamped upon and planted, there is satisfaction in knowing exactly how deep the good soil is. Knowing its color and feel. It's when seeds go in that fret starts. And already there is that bastard Creeping Grass.

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